


Cursed be

by adrift_me



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jealousy, M/M, Requited Corvosider, Sexual Tension, marked!Teague, unrequited teague/outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: Teague Martin, marked by the Outsider, thinks he understands the god and his ways, but time and a time again he is proven wrong. Particularly when the Outsider, always so unreachable, seems to have affections for another man...Unbearable. Cursed it be.





	Cursed be

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading my fic :) I am back in Teague Martin/The Outsider hell and I have a few more ficlets lined up oof.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr on give me prompts :)](https://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

Cursed be the Outsider! Cursed be his magic and cursed be Corvo who has so impertinently become an issue rather than a tool of salvation. Teague grits his teeth together and stares at the ceiling, its rough gray flatness too close to his face. In the Hound Pits pub the space is short, and no conversation is private. No secret is to be hidden. But somehow Teague Martin manages to harbour one, concealed by a glove and a shield of the Overseer strictures.

Sleep evades him this night, and his neighbours’ snores and quiet whispers tickle his nerves enough to shoo away any semblance of drowsiness. And worse than anything, it is his own mind that plays the evil trick of putting unwelcome thoughts in his mind. A memory of the slick black eyes, of hot lips whispering praise and promises in his ear, hotter than whiskey breath. The Outsider and his sweetened speeches, sharper than knife, more poisonous that any wicked plan Teague Martin himself came up with.

He likes to win. It is almost like an exercise to prove his wit is sharp, his mind is cold and calculative; and any tool would do. He remembers the Outsider telling him in ungodly hours of the night how winning would be so easy, should he allow him to imprint a shadow of his power on Teague’s hand.

And like a fool, he let him. Many a time it could have gotten him killed, but time and a time again it also saved him. A sharp end of the Overseer’s sword. A robbery gone wrong. A secret hidden well, but not well enough from his prying magic-sharpened eyes. Gnawing teeth of rats at his marked hand. It served him well, until it became his undoing.

Teague sighs in defeat of his own weakened will, fumbles with the blanket to hide his hand and clenches it in a fist, causing the sickly red glow seep through the fabric. And his vision goes dark, but his hearing sharpens.

With a shudder and oily shadowy whispers in his ears, he listens to the sharp strikes of rain against the window and to the way a bunk bed beneath creaks as its owner turns. He listens to a quiet song Lydia is singing somewhere down below, finishing up the cleaning. And he hears measured dull footsteps upstairs, where Corvo must be circling the room, waiting, expecting.

Oh Teague knows what is to come. It has been happening every night, as if by clock. There is a whisper of the wind, and more footsteps, much lighter, much slower. It seems as if the moon itself obscured its own disque with dark clouds and smoke to let the two furtive lovers have some privacy. 

There is a conversation, and Teague strains to listen in.

“My dear Corvo,” the Outsider speaks softly, his voice able to charm the most unpleasant folk. “You seem troubled. The day is weary to you, and at nights you crave other things. Tell me, Corvo, is it companionship? Simple need? Gentle affection? I am able to give all of that and more.”

“It is a generous offer,” Corvo replies, and Teague winces at the clarity and sincerity. No one associates those things with all things Outsider.

“Then take your pick… You fascinate me, Corvo. I love watching you carve your path not in blood, but in stone. Your benevolence knows no bonds. I may have underestimated you, Corvo, but so have every person in this building and in your way. I am intrigued, I want to know more.”

“You…” there is a soft hum, and Teague grunts, knowing full well that both of them have pressed into each other to kiss. He hears the way their lips move and tongues collide, or maybe he imagines it. Or maybe he remembers it from his own fantasies that never came to fruition with such a free spirit like the Outsider.

The spell wears off, bringing the room back to its pleasant grayscale light and to relative silence. What happens upstairs is now left to guesses and secrecy. And it does not please Teague at all, his cheeks burning, his eyes stinging and his jaw aching from the way he holds it tight.

Jealousy shall have no control of him, but he fears it might be too late.

Could he have been wrong about the Outsider? Did the black eyed god not crave bloodshed and intrigue and game of power? Was it not amusing for him to watch? It is maddening not to know, and Teague feels he has lost another grip of control over something in his life. Knowledge.

Why has the Outsider abandoned him for that fool of a man upstairs? Does he not deserve the affections, does he not fit the standard the Outsider seems to have for all his marked men? Have the promises given at the ungodly hours over and over been empty, a lie?

Unbearable. Teague slides out of bed and quietly dresses, making his way down into the main hall. Lydia must have left, because the bar is unattended and only a single light is lit, the one Teague flipped on to sit by. He pours himself a generous wake up call of whiskey and sips it, cold with the anger of jealousy.

A bulb in the lantern flickers and buzzes a little, as if protesting, and a man appears before Teague.

“Shouldn’t you be busy?” he says lowly, a little louder than he would have prefered. Whiskey has warmed his throat enough.

“Oh Teague, I have always thought you a well-mannered man, and here you are, eavesdropping. Have your manners always been a fraud? A mask, like the one you wear of the Overseer? But I forget, neither has ever been real. So I ask you, Teague, what makes you think you are better than Corvo?” the Outsider says in a voice that makes Teague’s skin crawl with stinging cold.

“I am no royal protector, but not a worse man. I could carry out your duty just fine.”

“But I have no duty,” the god laughs, disappearing and reappearing beside Teague, his arm on his shoulder, his lips reddened and pulled into a smile.

“Go and be with him then,” Teague shrugs him off.

“Indeed I shall. But not before I share a little secret with you, Teague Martin.”

The Outsider’s voice is colder than ice in Teague’s drink when he slips out of the seat again.

“What you do with my mark is your own decision. I only watch for the game, and so far you have brought me enough entertainment. But times change, Teague. And the pit you are falling into is far more dangerous than the one where they used to watch the hounds claw and tear. Will you fight your way out or will you be just another nameless body in the end?”

Surprisingly, Teague Martin has no answer for that, only an empty bar and a half-finished tumbler of whiskey. 


End file.
